On the afternoon of the same day, a light one-horse cabriolet sped over
the common which extends across country for several miles northwards of
Gromowo, and in the direction of the little town.
Dark and lowering, as if within reach of one's hand, the clouds lay
over the level plain. Here and there a willow stump stretched its
gnarled excrescences into the fog-laden air, all saturated with
moisture and glistening with the drops which hung in long rows on its
bare branches. The wheels sank deep into the boggy road, winding along
between withered reed-grass, and often the water splashed up as high as
the box-seat.
The man who held the reins took little heed of the surrounding
landscape; quite lost in thought he sat huddled up, only occasionally
starting up when the reins threatened to slip from his careless
fingers. Then the herculean build of his limbs became apparent, and his
broad, high-arched chest expanded as if it would burst the coarse grey
cloak which stretched across it in scanty folds.
The man's stature was similar to that of old Hellinger, perhaps even
superior, and the face, too, bore an undeniable family resemblance; but
what had there remained pleasing and soft and undefined even in old
age, had here developed into harsh, impressive lines, testifying to
defiance and gloomy brooding. A curly, terribly-neglected beard in dark
disorder encompassed the firm-set jaw, assumed a lighter dye near the
corners of the mouth, and fell upon the breast in two fair points.
This was Robert Hellinger, the owner of Gromowo manor, Olga's
betrothed. Of the happiness that had come to him yesterday there was
little written in his face. His grey, half-veiled eyes stared moodily
into the distance, and the wrinkles between his eyebrows never for one
moment disappeared. He well knew that hard work was in store for him
before he could lead home his bride--hours of bitterest struggle were
imminent, and even victory would bring him nothing but care and
anxiety. His thoughts travelled back over the dark times that lay in
the past, and that had hardly ever been illumined by a ray of light.
It was now six years since his father had solemnly made over to him, as
eldest son, the old family inheritance, the manor, and had himself
retired to a comfortable quiet life in the little town. On this day
his period of suffering had commenced, for he was burdened with a
yoke so heavy that even his herculean shoulders threatened to break
under its weight; everything he gained by the work of his sinewy
hands--everything of which he positively pinched himself--melted away
and was swallowed up by the claims which his family laid upon him. He
had no right to complain. Was it not all according to strict law? The
inheritance had been exactly divided to the very last farthing among
him and his six brothers and sisters, not counting the reserve which
his parents claimed for themselves.
Every brick of his house, every clod of his land, was encumbered--on
every ear of corn ripening in his fields his mother's suspicious gaze
was fixed, for she kept strict watch lest the interests should come in
a minute late. And was she not justified in so doing? Had he a right to
claim more love from her than she gave to her other children? There
were brothers who wanted to make their way in the world; sisters who
had only been married for the sake of their dowry: they all looked
anxiously and eagerly towards him as the promoter and preserver of
their happiness.
The interests! That was the dreadful word that henceforth hour by hour
droned in his ears, that by night startled him from his sleep and
filled his dreams with wild visions. The interests! How often on their
account he had beaten his brow with clenched fists! How often he had
run without sense or feeling through the loamy fields, to escape from
this host of glinting, gleaming devils! How often in a blind fit of
rage he had smashed to pieces some tool, a ploughshare, a waggon-pole,
with his fist, as if he did not mind with what weapon he fought them!
But they did not leave him. All the more tenaciously did they fasten
themselves on to his heels; all the more thirstily did they suck the
marrow from his young bones.
What good was it that he sometimes succeeded in mastering them? This
hydra everlastingly brought forth new heads; from quarter to quarter it
stood there before his terrified gaze, more and more monstrous, more
and more gigantic, growing and swelling, ready to pounce upon him and
crush him with the weight of its body. Thus from one reprieve to the
next his life had dragged along since that day which was so merrily
celebrated at the "Black Eagle" with drinking of claret and champagne.
If only his mother had exercised some leniency! But she did not even
exempt him from the stipulated asparagus in spring, nor even from the
loan of the carriage for drives during harvest-time when the horses
were so badly wanted in the fields.
"He that will not hearken to advice must suffer," she was wont to say,
and he would not hearken; no, indeed not! With one short, simple "yes"
he might have put a stop to all his misery, might have lived in the lap
of luxury to the end of his days; and because he would not do it, out
of sheer, inconceivable stubbornness, because all her wife-hunting had
been to no purpose--that was why his mother could not forgive him.
Thus two years passed away. Then he began to feel that such a life must
sooner or later make a wreck of him. This anxiety and worry was
exhausting him more and more; he decided to put an end to it all and to
demand of fate that modest share of happiness which was pledged and
promised to him by a pair of faithful blue eyes, and a pale, gentle
mouth. Then came a day when he brought home, as wife to his hearth, the
love of his youth, who had shortly become orphaned and homeless.
It was a dreary, sad November day, and dark clouds sped like birds of
ill omen across the sky. Trembling and pale, in her black mourning
dress, the frail, delicate creature hung on his arm and quaked beneath
every half-compassionate, half-contemptuous glance with which the
strange people examined her.
As for his mother, she had received her with reproaches and
maledictions, and a year had elapsed before tolerable relations were
established between the two.
Martha had kept up bravely, and in spite of her delicate health, had
worked from morn to night in order to set to rights what had all gone
topsy-turvy during the master's long bachelorhood.
And when, after three years of quiet, cheering companionship. Heaven
was about to bless their union, she had--even when her condition
already required the greatest care--always been up and doing, working
and ordering in kitchen, attic, and cellar.
It almost seemed as if thus by labour she wanted to give an equivalent
for her missing dowry.
Then--two days after the birth of a child--Olga had suddenly arrived in
Gromowo. He had not seen her since his marriage. At first sight of her
he was almost startled. She came towards him with an expression of such
proud reserve and bitterness; she had blossomed forth to such regal
beauty.
And this woman he was to-day to call his own! Yet what a world of
suffering, how many days of gloomiest brooding and despair, how many
nights full of horrible visions lay between now and then!
He shuddered; he did not like to recall it any more. To-day everything
seemed to have turned out well; Martha's glorified image smiled down in
peace and benediction, and, like a flower sprung from her grave,
happiness was blooming anew for him.
Nearer and nearer came the turrets of the little town; higher and
higher they stretched up behind the alder thickets. And a quarter of an
hour later the carriage drove into the roughly-paved street.
Soon after entering the gates Robert made the discovery that people who
met him to-day behaved towards him in the most peculiar manner. Some
avoided him, others in evident confusion doffed their caps and then as
quickly as possible fled from his presence. On the other hand, the
windows of every house past which the carriage drove, filled with heads
that stared at him gravely and disappeared hurriedly behind the
curtains at his greeting.
He shook his head doubtfully. But as his mind was so full of the
approaching struggle, he took not much notice, and henceforth looked
neither to the right nor to the left. At the corner of the marketplace,
where there used to be the little excise-office, stood his uncle's, the
doctor's, old housekeeper, holding her hands hidden under her blue
apron, and with an expression on her face like that of an undertaker.
As the carriage approached, she signed to him to stop.
"Well, Mrs. Liebetreu," he said, amused, "you at least do not take to
your heels at my approach to-day."
The old woman gazed up at the sky, so that she might not have to look
him in the face.
"Oh! young master," said she--he was always called "young master," to
distinguish him from his father, though he was long past thirty--"the
doctor wishes me to ask if you will kindly just step round there first;
he has something to say to you."
"Is what he has to say to me very pressing?"
The woman was very much terrified, for she thought the unhappy
intelligence would now fall to her lot to tell.
"Oh, gracious me!" she said; "he only put it like that."
"Well, then, give my kindest regards to my uncle the doctor, and the
message, that I only just wanted first to have a little talk with my
parents--he knows what about--and will then come round to him at once."
The old woman muttered something, but the words stuck in her throat.
The carriage rolled on in the direction of old Hellinger's villa,
that lay there under mighty old lime-trees, as if resting beneath a
canopy. The bright plate-glass windows greeted him cheerily, the
shining tiled roof gleamed in the light, the tranquillity of a
well-provisioned old age rested, as usual, over all. He tied his horse
to the garden-railings, and strode with heavy, noisy tread up the
small flight of steps, on the parapet of which, in wide-bellied urns,
half-faded aster plants mournfully drooped their heads.
The hall-bell sounded in shrill tones through the house, but no one put
in an appearance to receive him. He threw down his rain-soaked cloak on
one of the oak chests in which his mother's linen treasures were hidden
away. Then he stepped into the sitting-room--it was empty.
"The old people are probably taking their afternoon nap," he muttered;
"and I think it will be advisable to let them have their sleep out
to-day."
He flung himself into a corner of the sofa, and gazed towards the door;
for he privately hoped that Olga might have noticed his conveyance in
front of the house, and would come down to shake hands with him.
He began to get impatient. "Can she have gone out to the manor?" he
asked himself But, no--she would not do that; for she knew he would
come to speak to his parents.
"I will knock at her door," he decided, and got up.
He smiled anxiously, and stretched his mighty limbs. After having
longed for her incessantly since yesterday evening, now, at the moment
of beholding her again, he was filled with a peculiar fear of facing
her. The feeling of humble reverence, which always took possession of
him in her presence, now again made itself evident. Was it possible
that this woman had yesterday hung upon his neck? And what if she
regretted it to-day--if she went back from her word?
But at this moment all his defiance awoke within him. He opened his
arms wide, and with a smile which reflected the memory of happy hours
recently lived through, he cried:
"Let her but dare such a thing! With these hands of mine I will lift
her up and carry her to my home! If Martha gives her consent, I wonder
who should object."
On tip-toe, so as not to wake his parents, he climbed up the stairs,
which nevertheless creaked and groaned under the weight of his body.
Before Olga's door he started back, for he saw the gleam of light which
fell through the broken panel on to the corridor.
No one answered to his knocking. Nevertheless, he entered.
* * * * *
A moment later the whole house trembled in its foundations, as if the
roof had fallen in.
The two old people, who had retired to their bedroom to recuperate
their strength after those trying hours of the forenoon, started up in
terror. They called the maids. But these had run off, so that the town
should no longer be kept in ignorance of the newest details about the
sad occurrence.
"You go up," said the energetic woman to her husband, and tremblingly
put out her hand for the little bottle of sulphuric ether which she
always kept at hand. It was the first time in her life that she felt
frightened.
When old Hellinger entered the gable-room, he saw a sight which froze
the blood in his veins.
His son's body lay stretched on the ground. As he fell he must have
clutched the supports of the bier on which the dead girl had been
placed, and dragged down the whole erection with him; for on the top of
him, between the broken planks, lay the corpse, in its long white
shroud, its motionless face upon his face, its bared arms thrown over
his head.
At this moment he regained consciousness, and started up. The dead
girl's head sank down from his, and bumped on to the floor.
"Robert, my boy!" cried the old man, and rushed towards him.
With wide-open, glassy eyes, Robert stared about him. He seemed not yet
to have recovered his senses. Then he perceived one of the arms, which,
as the body dropped sidewards, had fallen right across his chest. His
gaze travelled along it up to the shoulder, as far as the neck--as far
as the white rigidly-smiling face.
Supported by the old man's two arms, he raised himself up. He tottered
on his legs like a bull that has received a blow from an axe.
"Good God, boy, do come to your senses!" cried his father, taking him
by his shoulders. "The misfortune has taken place; we are men, we must
keep our composure."
His son looked at him vacantly, helplessly as a child. Then he bent
over the dead body, lifted it up, and laid it across the bed, pushing
the fragments of the bier to one side with his foot.
Then he seated himself close to her on the pillow, and mechanically
wound a coil of her flowing hair round his finger.
The old man began to entertain fears of his son's sanity.
"Robert," he said, coming close up to him again, "pull yourself
together. Come away from here; you cannot bring her back to life
again."
Then he broke into a laugh so shrill and horrible, that it froze the
very marrow in his father's bones.
All of a sudden his stupor left him; he jumped up, his eyes glowed, and
on his temples the veins swelled up.
"Where is mother?" he screamed, advancing towards the old man.
He sought to pacify him.
"Good heavens! do have patience! We will tell you all."
The old lady, who had already been standing for a long time listening
on the stairs, at this moment put in her head at the door.
He rushed past his father and at her as if about to strangle her;
but he had at least so much reason left as to be sensible of the
monstrousness of his proceeding. His arms fell down limp at his
sides--he set his teeth as if to choke down his pent-up rage. "Mother,"
said he, "you shall account to me for this. I demand an explanation of
you. Why did she die?"
The old woman came towards him with tender compassion, and made as if
she would burst into tears upon his neck.
With a rough movement he shook her off.
"Leave that, mother," he said, "I claim her from you!"
"But, Robert," whined the old woman, "is this the way for a son to
treat his mother? Adalbert, just tell him how he ought to treat his
mother!"
He took hold of the old man's hands. "You keep out of the game,
father," he said. "The account which I have to settle to-day with my
mother concerns us two alone. Mother, I ask you once more: why did
she die?" He was leaning against the wall and stared at her with
half-closed, blood-shot eyes.
Mrs. Hellinger had meanwhile commenced to cry.
"Do you suppose I know?" she sobbed; "do you suppose anybody at all
knows? We found her in her bed, that is all. She has brought disgrace
upon our house, the miserable creature, in return for----"
"Do not abuse her, mother," he said, wildly, speaking in an angry
undertone; "you know very well that she was my bride!"
His mother gave vent to a cry of astonishment, and her husband too made
a movement of surprise.
"What! you do not know that? Mother," he cried, and pressed both his
fists to his temples, "did she say nothing to you? Did she not come to
you last night, and tell you what had taken place between her and me
during the day?"
"Heaven forbid!" groaned the old woman. "Scarce a syllable did she
speak to me, but went and locked herself up in her room."
"Mother," he said, and stepped close up to her. "When she had confessed
all to you, did you not work upon her conscience? Did you not impress
it upon her that if she truly loved me she must give me up, that she
would bring misfortune upon me, and Heaven knows what besides! Mother,
did you not do this?"
"My own son does not believe me! My own son gives me the lie,"
whimpered the old woman. "These are the thanks that I get from my
children to-day."
He grasped her right hand. "Mother," he said, "you have done me many a
wrong in all these years. The worst and bitterest I ever experienced
came to me through you."
"Merciful Heavens," shrieked the old woman, "these are the
thanks--these are the thanks!"
"But all the evil you did to me and Martha I will forgive you, mother,"
he continued, "nay, more even! On my bended knees I will ask your
forgiveness for ever having harboured a bitter thought against you; but
one thing you must do for me--here by her dead body you must swear that
you knew of nothing, that in all things you were speaking the truth."
And he dragged her to the corpse that stared up at him with its
ecstatic smile--a bride's smile to her bridegroom.
"That such a thing should be necessary between us," complained the old
woman, and cast a glance of bitter hatred at him out of her swollen
eyes. But she suffered him to lay her right hand on the dead girl's
forehead; she stroked it and sobbed, "I swear it, my sweet one, you
know best that I knew nothing and never required anything wrong of
you." Thereupon she gave a sigh of relief, as if she had suddenly come
to understand what a gain this tragic deed would mean for her and her
family. Sincere gratitude lay in the tender caress with which she
fondled the dead face.
At this moment the old physician came rushing into the room. He had
hoped to overtake Robert and prepare him for the worst, and saw in
terror that he had come too late.
Old Hellinger hurried towards him and whispered in his ear: "Take him
away, he is out of his senses! We can do nothing with him here!"
Robert stood there clutching at the bed-posts, his chest heaving, his
face as if turned to stone with gloomy, tearless misery.
The old doctor rubbed his stubbly grey beard against his shoulder, and
growled in that roughly compassionate way which goes quickest to the
hearts of strong men.
"Come away, my boy; don't do anything foolish; do not disturb her
rest."
Robert started and nodded several times.
Then suddenly--as if overpowered by his misery--he fell down in front
of the bed and cried out, "Wherefore didst thou die?"